by Rabbi Darren Kleinberg
If one wished to describe the book of Numbers in one word, a fitting choice would be the word "complain." Throughout this fourth of the five books of the Torah, we hear the Jewish people - or parts thereof - complaining about their lot in the desert. There is even a rabbinic tradition (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 116a) that a scribal division was placed in Chapter 10 of the book of Numbers to separate between what would otherwise have been two consecutive stories of complaint and subsequent punishment - as if to say that we need a break from all the complaining.
And so, we are not surprised when we read that Moses, frustrated by this "culture of complaint," loses his temper with the people. The text tells us that, after the passing of Miriam, there was no longer any water and that, "The people disputed with Moses..." (20:3). After appealing to God, Moses is instructed to "Speak to the rock in their presence and it will give forth water" (20:8).Instead Moses, accompanied by Aaron, berates the people and strikes the rock. As a result, they are both condemned to die in the desert, never to cross over the Jordan to the Land of Israel.
As we will see in a few weeks, almost the entire book of Deuteronomy is a record of Moses's frustration and bitterness at the fact that he will be deprived the fulfillment of his life's work, a bitterness that Moses directs at the Jewish people for provoking him to anger.
And, as we read Moses's final speeches in the book of Deuteronomy, our hearts are inclined to be sympathetic and to question God's judgment at withholding this from Moses.
Shortly after the striking of the rock, Aaron dies and, suddenly Moses finds himself all alone. His sister and brother have passed away, the Jewish people seem bent on turning against him at any opportunity and God has denied him his hope of entering the land of Israel. This is likely one of the most challenging moments in the life of Moses - a moment of loneliness that many of us can identify with.But how could it have come to this? Was not Moses chosen by God to lead His people into the Land of Israel?
At this, the halfway point of the book of Numbers, we begin to understand the true burden of leadership.
In many ways, Moses stands as a warning to all leaders: We must be wary of those who offer us promises that can be just as easily rescinded. Salvation is ours to earn, not to receive.
We must keep those closest to us closer still, even as the pull of leadership entices us away. Family and friends must be leaned on, talked with, gotten advice from, lest they feel left out and begin to question us behind our backs.
We must find ways to involve the entire people in the project of moving the Jewish people towards redemption. Leaders cannot do it by themselves - because, after all, we are all leaders.
The test of leadership is not whether one has followers, but rather, whether one has helped create other leaders in their own right.
As the book of Numbers, or rather The Book of Complaints, comes to its conclusion, we realize that the Jewish people has not yet become a people of leaders - it has not yet lived up to its charge to become a mamlechet cohanim v'goy kadosh - a Kingdom of priests and a holy nation.
Only when we learn that we do not drink simply because one person talks to - or strikes - a rock, but because we all join together to dig a well, only then will we all merit to cross over to the other side of the Jordan.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Times of Transition
by Rabbi Darren Kleinberg
Anyone that has ever been to a shvitz will know how cleansing it can be to sit in a room at extreme temperatures. One of my fondest memories from living in New York City was making my too-infrequent visits to the Russian/Turkish Bath House on 10th Street in Manhattan. And so, I recently jumped at the opportunity to experience a Southwestern-style shvitz.
The difference here was that I was not only cleansed from the inside out, but I was also replenished with a spirit of connectedness from the outside in.
It was my great honor to attend a "warrior initiation" ceremony for a young man about to join his elders as a bar mitzvah.
The ritual we shared began with a Native American prayer-chant accompanied by the rhythmic beating of a drum. The song, although in a foreign language, directed my senses to what was to follow.
Following the chant, 12 men and two not-yet-men (the bar mitzvah boy was accompanied by his younger cousin) got onto their hands and knees and crawled, one after the other, into the cramped hut. The diameter of the hut was no more than 15 feet and was no greater than five feet at its highest point. Just as the Mishna describes how the courtyard of the Temple expanded, as it were, on Yom Kippur to allow for the people to bow down during the service, so too, as the ritual continued and the intensity grew, it seemed as if the hut was expanding around us.
The ceremony consisted of four separate rounds inside the small willow-ribbed hut commonly known as a sweat lodge. In the first round, there were seven "stones," or coals, brought in to heat the enclosure. In each subsequent round, another seven were introduced in the ritual manner, totaling 28 stones by the fourth round. As each round got hotter, so too the intensity of the experience increased.
For the next two or more hours, I participated in one of the most moving and meaningful rite-of-passage ceremonies I have ever experienced. Once inside, the doorway closed, enveloping us in darkness, the smell of herbs rose from the pit in the center and the temperature increased. Each of us shared with the bar mitzvah some insight from our own journeys in life and offered with it a blessing for his.
I listened to a grandfather's sense of connection to a grandson named after his own deceased father; a stranger's blessing of wisdom and meaning in life; and a father's tears of joy and hope for his son's future.
As well as prayers and blessings for our "warrior," we also offered prayers for loved ones in need of healing and for a world in need of fixing. And with the passing of each of the four rounds, we concluded with a traditional Hebrew song, or a Native American chant or a good, old bluegrass sing-a-long.
By day's end, after the sun had dropped below the horizon - appropriately drawing our attention to times of transition and transformation - we crawled back out of that hut not only cleansed, but also spiritually replenished by our experiences with each other and by the knowledge that we had appropriately prepared our young "warrior" for the day he would be called to the Torah and join his tribe alongside his elders.
Anyone that has ever been to a shvitz will know how cleansing it can be to sit in a room at extreme temperatures. One of my fondest memories from living in New York City was making my too-infrequent visits to the Russian/Turkish Bath House on 10th Street in Manhattan. And so, I recently jumped at the opportunity to experience a Southwestern-style shvitz.
The difference here was that I was not only cleansed from the inside out, but I was also replenished with a spirit of connectedness from the outside in.
It was my great honor to attend a "warrior initiation" ceremony for a young man about to join his elders as a bar mitzvah.
The ritual we shared began with a Native American prayer-chant accompanied by the rhythmic beating of a drum. The song, although in a foreign language, directed my senses to what was to follow.
Following the chant, 12 men and two not-yet-men (the bar mitzvah boy was accompanied by his younger cousin) got onto their hands and knees and crawled, one after the other, into the cramped hut. The diameter of the hut was no more than 15 feet and was no greater than five feet at its highest point. Just as the Mishna describes how the courtyard of the Temple expanded, as it were, on Yom Kippur to allow for the people to bow down during the service, so too, as the ritual continued and the intensity grew, it seemed as if the hut was expanding around us.
The ceremony consisted of four separate rounds inside the small willow-ribbed hut commonly known as a sweat lodge. In the first round, there were seven "stones," or coals, brought in to heat the enclosure. In each subsequent round, another seven were introduced in the ritual manner, totaling 28 stones by the fourth round. As each round got hotter, so too the intensity of the experience increased.
For the next two or more hours, I participated in one of the most moving and meaningful rite-of-passage ceremonies I have ever experienced. Once inside, the doorway closed, enveloping us in darkness, the smell of herbs rose from the pit in the center and the temperature increased. Each of us shared with the bar mitzvah some insight from our own journeys in life and offered with it a blessing for his.
I listened to a grandfather's sense of connection to a grandson named after his own deceased father; a stranger's blessing of wisdom and meaning in life; and a father's tears of joy and hope for his son's future.
As well as prayers and blessings for our "warrior," we also offered prayers for loved ones in need of healing and for a world in need of fixing. And with the passing of each of the four rounds, we concluded with a traditional Hebrew song, or a Native American chant or a good, old bluegrass sing-a-long.
By day's end, after the sun had dropped below the horizon - appropriately drawing our attention to times of transition and transformation - we crawled back out of that hut not only cleansed, but also spiritually replenished by our experiences with each other and by the knowledge that we had appropriately prepared our young "warrior" for the day he would be called to the Torah and join his tribe alongside his elders.
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